Eventually, Ben’s winded enough that he pauses—just enough of an opening for me to get out from under him. It goes on like this for another three minutes, one of us bettering the other, the other taking a beating, and then the roles reversing over and over again. I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my arm anymore when the final bell rings.
The crowd starts hollering and screaming at the injustice of the fight being called to an end. Ben and I lay on our backs, chests heaving, blood all over our skin, in our hair, in our eyes, blood everywhere, and all I can focus on is the light swinging over my head, burning into my retinas, and the insanity of my heartbeat.
Carlos stands us up, clearly unhappy that Ben didn’t just wipe the fucking floor with me. He holds Ben’s arm in the air and the crowd cheers like crazy. Surprisingly, when he holds my arm in the air, the reaction is the same. A draw.
Well fuck me.
An hour passes where more people fight and me and Ben slump against the back wall, trying to get our shit together. Eventually Carlos comes and pays up the money he owes us, half each. Nine hundred dollars for me and nine hundred for Ben.
“Not bad for two black eyes and a mild concussion, huh?” Ben laughs. “Fuck, you punch like a heavy weight.”
“Sorry, man,” I sigh. Am I really sorry, though? Hell no. I hand over the one fifty he spotted me, feeling kind of amazing as I pocket what’s left over. Seven hundred and fifty bucks. I wouldn’t earn that working for Mac every day for two weeks. A couple of black eyes and a mild concussion were worth it all right.
Chapter Twelve
Zeth
A pineapple sits on the kitchen counter. A pineapple. It’s just not something you see everyday. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night, that’s for sure. I’m all for eating fruit—you don’t get a body like mine by shoving Twinkies down your throat twenty-four-seven—but this thing looks like it requires preparation. It’s fucking spiky. I stand in the kitchen, staring at it for a while, contemplating how to proceed, and then I figure, fuck it, I’ll wing it and go on a mission to find a knife.
Sloane got sent home from work yesterday, and is still asleep upstairs in our bed. Our bed. I never thought I’d be thinking those words. It gives me insane pleasure to run a playback of what took place in that bed yesterday in minute detail as I carve up the fruit for my girl’s breakfast. There was a lot of spanking involved. And a tiny clamp that I hooked up to Sloane’s clit, firing electrical charges into her sweet pussy that had her clawing at my skin and screaming out my name. I fucking love when she does that.
The memory of our heated sex is almost enough to put Agent Lowell and her damn skivvies out of my head. Michael’s on the case. He’s going to figure out what the hell she’s doing back here, and then the two of us are going to figure out how we make her disappear again. As if he knows I’m thinking of his last owner, Ernie lifts his head from his paws where he’s been sleeping by the back door and growls. Funny little bastard. I don’t want to think about Lowell at all today, so I take a deep breath and exhale the stone cold bitch right out of my head. Ernie sighs like he’s doing the same.
It’s one of those rare cold but extremely sunny mornings in Seattle. Like a damn finger of fate pointing straight down from Heaven, a pillar of light is shining straight through the glass doors at the front of the house, landing directly on the drawer where I stowed a small, velvet-covered box not so long ago. A gift for Sloane. A gift I’m not ready to give her yet. Seems as though every time I walk past that goddamn drawer, I can feel the box inside humming like a freaking signalling beacon. I really need to move it. Take it down to the gym or something. Leave it in my locker there. She’d never find it amongst all my sweat-soaked workout clothes, hand wraps and boxing gloves. But then, no. That just seems fucking wrong.
I carry the sliced pineapple upstairs on a plate, along with the eggs I’ve made and some fresh orange juice. Very fucking domesticated. I would never have done this for anyone else. The stars would have collided and the universe collapsed in on itself before I bowed and scraped to any other woman. I don’t see taking care of my girl as bowing and scraping now, though. I see it as making sure she’s fed. Making sure she’s content. Making sure she’s safe. Making sure she’s fit and healthy enough for me to fuck her the way I like, and for her to demand more.